


twenty-one yards

by inheritor



Category: Homestuck
Genre: M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-28
Updated: 2013-07-28
Packaged: 2017-12-21 14:01:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/901119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inheritor/pseuds/inheritor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Dave, young and unafraid, experiment with their lips, their mouths, the everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	twenty-one yards

It was the creeping sort of summer, the no-good type, where everything felt so strange and out of proportions. That’s why it happened. Because it was the sort of summer where all magnificent swords and fantastical creatures become broken branches and tired worms, and nothing really made sense. 

“It doesn’t count if we’re friends, Jesus Christ, you dumbass. It only counts if we were dating, the whole twenty yards. Doing this stuff between friends—trust me, Egbert, it doesn’t count.”

A high school summer. The old pogo ride in the yard, rusted over in patched brown. The tire swing, throttled with thick rope. It was a still summer. That was the thing. A still, suffocating summer. The entire neighborhood was silent, even though the window was propped open. A fan sat on the table, propped up by some SAT books. The blades made a blunt shuffling sound, barely enough to move the pages of the study guides on the desk. 

“Think of it like I’m giving you some experience. Imagine that, a lucky Mrs. Egbert getting all wooed by your experienced ass, you know all the ways to please her. You wouldn’t have to get out your nerdy ass Ghostbusters suit to sexually arouse her.”

The porn magazine, opened to a center spread. Dave, his best friend with a burning face, sitting against the wall. His spindly legs spilled out over the bed, chest rising and falling underneath his thin shirt. Sunglasses clipped to his collar, jeans tight over his thighs. As a child, he’d been charming. As a teenager, he was gawky. As an adult, he would be handsome, but he was a teenager still. Hints of his adulthood emerged in the slender shape of his face, the breadth of his shoulders. But he still clutched at his elbows, almost wounded, always afraid. 

“It’s just an idea. If you don’t want to fool around with our dicks, that’s cool. Just thought I’d give you a hand with that monolith in your pants.” Dave pulled his knees to himself, averted eyes.

“But sex is what happens after you’re married. And it happens in the dark, underneath the covers and stuff.” John wrapped the corner of his sheet around his hand, and the small ghost pattern offended him. His heart beat in his chest, welling up until he could hardly breathe. Sweat trickled down his neck, into the valley of his back. 

“That’s why you’re a chump. This is just—playing around. Figuring stuff out. How to use your dick, that type of dumb stuff. Over the clothes petting, nothing has to come off. That’s all. Jesus. Jesus Christ, you make everything some big fiasco.” 

“Things won’t change even if we do the funky?”

“I pinky swore that shit hours ago. You’re in or you’re out, Egbert. No big deal.” 

When he was younger, braces strapped to his teeth and bandages plastered over his elbows, he thought he’d been in love with Miss Rose. He couldn’t remember her well, the Miss Rose who taught elementary school with the frilled collars, but he could remember that she was the nicest person in the world and that he loved her. Dave had loved her, too, but he hadn’t given her Valentine’s Day cards or sat in the front row or read all the hardest books. He’d shyly look at her sometimes, and bravely asked her out. And here, now, he was sitting in John’s bed with the same brave expression. 

The fever swelled, cresting over his nervous stomach. His skin prickled in sweat, and Dave hunched over him. The thin papers flapped on his desk, and he could see Dave now. Dave with the freckles smattered over his face, clustered together over the bridge of his nose, his thin chapped lips, the curve of his eyes. He smelled strange, and new, a thick scent with something soft mingled in. In the romantic part of the movies, the hero kissed the lady, so he sat up to kiss him. It wasn’t very good, because he wasn’t very good, and he’d never kissed anybody on the lips, and it was weird to kiss Dave. He thought kisses would be soft and comfortable, but Dave’s mouth was always dry. Their noses bumped, and his foot was falling asleep underneath him. 

Dave pushed him over, and the sheets clung to the back of his arms. It was heavy. Everything was heavy, and Dave kissed him with dry lips. John knew his teeth were getting in the way, but the kiss didn’t feel bad. Kissing Dave felt easy, like he’d forgotten how to ride his bike, but he remembered now. On his sides, he could feel Dave’s hand touching him like he was fragile, uncertain and always afraid. Fingertips to palm to wrist, over his thin cotton t-shirt, not quite touching him. It was a dance. It felt hot, even with his fan humming a tuneless song in the background. His heart throbbed and surged. Dave touched him like he was afraid of breaking something. 

He lifted his leg, trying to wake his foot from the dull state. His thigh brushed up the harsh denim, then over the seam of the crotch. Dave groaned, suddenly, the vibrations of his throat echoing through his body. His back arched and he stopped kissing him, pulling back. John steadied his glasses, hand perching over his frames. Strands of Dave’s hair swayed downward, and Dave’s entire face flared red, a blotchy color. 

“It’s nothing,” Dave said. His shoulders trembled, and John grinned. He usually smiled, especially when he didn’t understand. Everything felt heavy, and he grinned ear to ear. 

“You liar,” he said, and brushed his knee again, higher. “You’re such a dumbass, dude.” 

But the more he rubbed, the more Dave trembled above him. His blotchy face, his wavering shoulders, the low sounds he made. John had never seen or heard Dave like this, but he was always the adventurous type. He was always the brave type. He wanted to hear more, and he rubbed harder with his thigh over the hard lump. Dave gripped the ghost sheets until his knuckles paled and he buried his face into John’s shoulder, gasping for breath between his low, whispery moans. 

“Hey, you’re funny, Dave. You look really weird and funny,” he said, and he placed a hand over the small of his back. His coarse voice sounded strange to his ears. The sun blazed outside, rays striking through his window. Dave trembled, violent. Through his shirt, John could make out Dave mouthing words into his shoulder. He was saying something, over and over, not loud enough to be heard. John snorted, rubbing his thigh more viciously over Dave’s crotch. Dave tensed again, the ropy muscles of his body tightening, an arrow pointed at him. 

“You little shit.” Dave straightened up, and his hand shot out to cup at John’s crotch. The palm of his hand felt hot, even through the fabric of the cargo shorts. John shivered at the sensation, back lifting off the bed and driving his hips down. It wasn’t bad. But it was new, startlingly new. Dave sat above him with his wretched little grin, the lopsided one that almost reached a smirk, and John felt a bit better because Dave wasn’t like him. Dave didn’t have false smiles. If he was smiling, then things would be all right, even if it was that wretched little grin. 

“Shut up, dude.” John prodded him on the hip, but Dave only shoved his hand harder. John stifled the keen in his throat, but Dave moved his hand, awkwardly but constantly, and John clamped his eyes shut. His breathing caught in his throat, the hazy web of heat around him, Dave’s thin fingers trailing over his growing erection. He rose into the spreading fingers, heart throbbing even thicker and a fine layer of sweat covering his arms and legs. His own hand may have stroked with more confidence and knowledge, but there was something more about Dave’s awkward attempts and clumsy shoving of his palm. Sometimes it was too much, more often it was not enough, but John twisted underneath his touch. 

His eyes fluttered open when Dave kissed him again, gentler, relentless. Dave’s hand slid away to hold his thigh, knobby fingers draped over the stitching of his pockets. Instead, he rutted against him, his shirt rolling up to reveal a flat stomach, his hipbones jutting out. He kissed him almost frantically, lips covering his, slobbering and indelicate. The throbbing intensified, heating up from his crotch and swirling from his stomach into a complicated knot. Dave was kissing him, pressing kisses over his mouth, an awkward and childish reassurance, and the summer felt so hot. John twisted his hands over Dave’s shirt, drawing lines over the cloth. 

When Dave moved, he could feel his erection shift over his tight underwear, confined in the flapping zipper of his shorts. The light flooded over the sheets, lighting up the strands of Dave’s hair. Even in the shadows, he could make out the coarse line of hair beneath Dave’s navel, leading down to his pants. Dave still kissed him, but his forearms on the bed dragged him higher, until John could feel Dave’s crotch over his own. Dave plunged a hand down his pants, adjusting something, kissing him and grinding against him. 

Maybe it was because that’s what they did in the movies. Maybe it was the wounded look in Dave’s eyes. He raised his hands and gently grasped them in Dave’s hair, pinky resting over the short bristles of hair on the nape of his neck, and he pulled him closer and kissed him like a stranger. Dave kissed back, still pushing down on his hips in uneven pace. It felt good, it felt strangely good, it felt like all the hair on his arms were standing up and his muscles strained to release, and he couldn’t take it anymore, dropping a hand down to fumble with his shorts. 

Dave pulled back to watch, lips swollen, and John felt embarrassed. Not because he was unzipping his shorts and yanking down his underwear, peeling back his clothes and gripping the base of his cock, fingers tangling in the curly black hairs at the base. He could take Dave’s desperate eyes, the sunglasses still clipped to his shirt now falling open, the way Dave’s hand stayed so close on his hips. He was embarrassed because he’d left a hand on the back of Dave’s head, and it felt too intimate. It felt like Dave was a lover. He shivered, trying to focus on his arousal, trying to make that feel good feeling stay longer. He didn’t understand. He couldn’t understand. He just wanted to feel good, and make Dave feel good, and he dropped the intimate hand to undo Dave’s jeans. 

His hands, slick with sweat, fumbled with the zipper. His knuckles brushed against the denim until he managed to pull it down, sliding it to his thighs. There was still the underwear, the red boxer briefs, the black outline on the waistband. And he was uncomfortable how his erection was throbbing at the sight, standing straight up and still leaking without any touch. He was turned on by the thin underwear, the outline of Dave’s cock, his fingertips brushing against the skin over the hipbones, the darker hair leading down Dave’s underwear. The smell, it was the smell, and the air weighed heavily against him. 

He hooked his fingers into the waistband and pulled it down, stomach tightening and knot growing at Dave’s bare cock in the light. Long, a thicker vein on the underside, upright. Everything felt hazy, it felt good, and Dave was heaving above him, chest in and chest out. He looked exhilarated, eyes wide open, the flush rising to his ears. John hesitantly wrapped his fingers around Dave’s cock, one at a time, and Dave bowed his head. 

It just felt good to hear Dave’s small sounds above him, the gasps, the rolls, and the feeling of Dave’s heavy dick in his hand. He stroked the looser skin, jerking his hand up and down like he would do to himself, but it wasn’t the late at night in the frantic fear of his father downstairs. The house was empty, and Dave was groaning, knees spread out as far as his jeans would allow, jerking randomly into his hand with small twitches. John’s fingers became coated in something wet, heavy and sticky, and he grasped his cock into harder jerks. It felt good and John wanted more, to taste more, to feel more, and he kissed Dave again. He pressed his tongue inside, a slippery weasel move, and Dave gasped in a strangled way. Dave’s mouth felt warm. 

Dave wormed his hand down to touch John’s cock, the touch on the skin sending small waves up his body. He kissed him harder, tongue sliding inside, the musky smell of sex hitting the air. Dave touched him gentler, more delicate, but with a coarseness that still delivered the release he needed. Impatient, in a haze of heat and need, he nudged him down until he could press their dicks together. He could feel the sensitivities of Dave’s cock, the thickness and the weight, pressed skin over skin onto his own. Every twitch sent him scrambling for a hold again, breathing hot and yearning, everything messy, everything full, his muscles tense and waiting. His hand was clumsy, slipping frantic despite the neediness that made his toes curl and his eyes flutter. Dave helped, or tried to help, rolling his hips and jerking over him, but it only made him need more, and it felt good and it felt strange because Dave was his friend and he had known Dave since he was little and Dave laughed at him for his math homework and Dave once snorted milk out of his nose, that Dave, kissing him still, he couldn’t think, he just wanted to come because the rubbing sensation and the thickness welled up inside him and his body was burning, lit on fire, he stroked himself fully from the tip to the shaft to his balls and touched down Dave’s vein and he came, sudden, jerking with a lost cry as the semen sprayed up his shirt. It splattered, then it sank, soaking into his shirt. 

That would have already been too much. Coming in front of his best friend would have been enough, vulnerable in the desperate feel good feeling. But he kissed him again, teeth in the way, kissed him over the mouth. He shook like he was frail, even though he was strong. His bones had turned to water. The heat had turned to cold sweat, covering his arms. He sank into the bed, and Dave came in a smaller spurt, his fingers curled and catching most of the come dripping over his fingers. 

John draped an arm over his face, breathing. His shirt stuck to him in sweat, shorts still jammed down. Dave rolled off, and sat against the wall. The silence stretched between them, broken by the fan and the bird calls outside the window. The papers still fluttered over the college guides. Downstairs was cake, across the town was Dave’s apartment, and here was the silence. 

“You liar,” John said, eyes closed to the sweltering heat. “You dumbass liar. You said nothing would change.” 

He could feel Dave touching his hand. His shirt had ridden up, and he was messy and sticky. His father would be unhappy that he had sex before marriage. His father would be disappointed he had sex in the daylight, on the ghost sheets with the window open to the tire swing. It felt heavy. Everything felt heavy. John was the brave one, and he was afraid.


End file.
